Surprise!
by Kaara
Summary: Sena and Monta plot a celebration for Hiruma's birthday. But Agon apparently has another idea. AgonHiruma. OneShot.


**Title:** Surprise!  
**By:** Kaara.  
**Prompt:** The need for more AgonHiru.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Eyeshield 21. I forgot who own them.  
**Rating:** R.  
**Note:** AgonHiru. Because there's NOT ENOUGH AGONHIRU!! I need more AgonHiru, I'm serious. I just can't stand the lack of this crazy/quirky/fabulous pairing. Feedbacks are welcomed, appreciated and cherished!

**xxx**

**Surprise!**

**xxx**

"Hey, trash!" A head full of dreadlocks appears from the kitchen. Hiruma looks up from the magazine he was reading. Agon smirks. "Your birthday's today, right?"

The quarterback sneers right back. "The fuck do you wanna do 'bout that, dread-head?"

Agon slams the refrigerator's door close, fingers hooked around Chinese take-out boxes. He struts into the living room, where Hiruma is currently occupying the couch, and plops unceremoniously besides the blond. The couch creaks in protest to the added weight, but Agon ignores it and plunks the boxes onto the coffee table. Hiruma had returned his attention back to the magazine, a spread-out of the latest gun models spilling over the couch and onto the parquet floor. Agon begins tugging insistently at Hiruma's shirt, like an ignored, petulant child.

"Oi."

Hiruma doesn't even look up from a review of an antique pistol. "What?"

More tugging ensues. "Let's fuck."

Long fingers flip through several pages, stopping at a glossy pin up of a Steyr MPi 69. "Fuck off."

"That's not a very nice way to treat your _lover_," Agon couldn't help the snicker at the last word. His hand slips underneath the shirt, rubbing over firm muscles and smooth skin. His smirk widens when he feel the skin pulling taut, and his fingers find a nipple, tweaking the hardening nub teasingly. "I'll even blow you, on account of today being your birthday."

"Such a romantic, aren't you?"

Agon shifts around until he's straddling Hiruma, licking his lips at the sight of the now half-naked quarterback, shirt riding up his torso and skin prickling with rising goose bumps. Absobloodylutely delicious. He continues pinching and rubbing the nipples, pleased at the reaction his action brings. "I try."

Hiruma draws in a sharp breath, almost inaudible, but good enough to encourage Agon. He tries to bat the wandering hand away with little success. "I'm not in the mood, fucktard."

"I'll get you in the mood!" growls the larger of those two, before he abandons all niceties and practically pounces onto the blond, dreadlocks flying all over them.

The magazine slides onto the floor, forgotten amidst weak protests and heated groans.

**xxx**

Personally, if you ask him, Sena doesn't think that this is a good idea.

"Come on! We need to go there before Hiruma come back!" Monta skips forward, shouldering a huge bag of something of an undeterminable nature that jingles loudly with every excited skip from the receiver. "He'll be _so_ surprised!"

Sena swallows a lump of apprehension that was lodged in his throat and follows his friend in a more humane speed. Not a good idea _at all_. He doesn't think that Hiruma-senpai likes surprises; there might be explosions and/or booby traps waiting for them once they stepped into the devil's lair. Sena shifts the paper bag he's carrying to a more comfortable position against his rib. Perhaps Hiruma-senpai doesn't even celebrate birthdays…

Monta consults a piece of paper, the one that they had pilfered from the school record with the help of Mamori-neesan. Apparently, even the ever-strict manager of the American Football Club has a soft spot for Hiruma, agreeing with little pleading (from Monta) to assist them (Monta) in their (Monta's) quest to throw an ultimate surprise party for Hiruma. The girl had declined to be involved further though, stating that she has some… _prefect-ly_ duties to attend to. Sena wonders if Mamori-neesan's survival instinct had kicked in at the right time.

"Here we are!" Monta's exclamation brings Sena out of his reverie, and into reality, where he's standing in front of a door, marked '13' by a small placard. He'd heard somewhere that the number '13' is an unlucky number. Bad, bad sign. Monta, oblivious of his reluctant partner-in-crime's distress, tries the doorknob. It twists open without a sound.

Sena swallows again. Definitely a bad sign.

"Mon… Monta!" he whispers urgently, fisting the hem of Monta's shirt to hold the receiver back. "I don't think this is a good idea. Hiruma-senpai might be home right now!"

Monta pauses at that. And grins widely. "No way! We heard him in the clubhouse; he's meeting someone."

"What if he's meeting that someone here?"

A longer pause. Another wide grin. "Can't be… right?"

Sena gestures widely at the opened door with his free hand. "The door's not locked. I think he's inside there. Somewhere." The thought sends shivers down his spine. "Wai… Waiting for us…"

This time, even Monta seems to be rendered immobile by the mere suggestion that their captain might be lurking in the shadow, shotgun ready in hands. But Monta, being Monta, simply shrugs off Sena's hand and turns to his team mate, ears twitching. "Weeeell… We can check it out first. See if the coast is clear."

Sena prays to whatever deity that looks over American Football players for dear life.

Two large hands push him towards the door, towards the much-feared devil's lair and a "Sena, you go!" proves that the deity hates him.

And so, Sena despairs.

"But… but why me?!"

Monta gives him a look. "Duh. Because you're faster than me."

"What's that have to do with snooping around Hiruma-senpai's place?!" Sena's voice is rising into that high pitch similar to a strangulated pig.

Monta clamps a hand over his team mate's mouth, dragging him back out. "Shhh! Not so loud! What if he heard you?"

**xxx**

Hiruma detaches himself from Agon's mouth and stares at the short hallway towards the door. "Did you hear something?"

"No," mumbles his partner, too absorbed in the process of getting both of them naked to bother about something as trivial as sounds. Agon fumbles with the buckles of his pants, and grinds harder against Hiruma. "C'mon, stop talkin' and get that blasted shirt off!"

A ripping sound echoes inside the small space not two second after that.

Hiruma stares at the remnant of his shirt and growls. "That was my favourite shirt, you asshole!"

"So?" Agon had started nibbling on his neck. "I'll buy you a new one. Help me outta this jeans, will ya? They're fuckin' killing my balls right now."

Hiruma smacks him solid in the face with his shredded shirt.

**xxx**

"I don't think we should go inside," Sena whispers, fidgeting with his paper bag. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a hand. "It's… it's dangerous."

Monta keeps a close watch over the door, but still doesn't budge. He looks ridiculously thoughtful, with his large ears and bandaged nose twitching like a mischievous primate. "We can't back out now."

"But, but—"

"Come on!"

Monta snatches one of Sena's hands and drags the other boy towards the inviting door, tiptoeing all the way in. There are odd grunts and moans coming from the living room, and Sena finds himself feeling inexplicably worried about Hiruma. What if some sort of a mutated creature is infesting the apartment? What if _Hiruma-senpai_ is breeding some sort of a mutated creature, like a battalion of Cerberuses? (Because really, dogs as vicious and wickedly intelligent as Cerberus can not possibly the work of Mother Nature). Sena turns pale at the mental images that the thought ignited.

"I can see someone on the couch!" Monta whispered excitedly, spits spraying everywhere. He takes several steps forward, and hides behind a rather large china vase. Sena contemplates silently that Hiruma-senpai sure is loaded enough to have his apartment nicely-decorated. Sena blinks in confusion when Monta mutters, "Someone with… uhm… spiked blonde hair and… _dreadlocks_?"

He couldn't have heard that right. "Um… what?"

"It's that Shinryuji bastard!" Monta punches his fist into a palm, eyes blazing with the fiery flames of righteous indignation. "He's attacking Hiruma!"

"No, no! Wait!" Sena clings desperately onto Monta, who has the clear intention of barrelling into the living room right at that very moment to 'save' their captain. "Wha… Hiruma-senpai and Agon-san… on the couch? _Together_?"

"Yeah, sure looks like it." There is hesitance in Monta's voice as the receiver squints to get a better look. More grunts and moans bounce off the wall. "Like they're… wrestling, or somethi— oh." A pause, and Monta turns red all of a sudden. "OH."

Depraved of the actual visual feedback for fear of being spotted by two potentially dangerous criminals-to-be that are _wrestling_ on the couch, Sena can only rely on Monta's running commentary. It worries him a little to hear Monta's mysterious silence and see the splash of brilliant red across his friend's monkey-like feature.

Sena nudges Monta's back to prompt the receiver into mental consciousness. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh, um…" is Monta's articulate response, before he spins around, and drags Sena out of the apartment. His face is an unhealthy shade of purple by the time they stumble outside. "We, uh… hafta go. Now. Yeah!"

"But you said—"

Monta is already pushing him towards the elevator. "Nothing's doin'. Hafta go!"

"But—"

The elevator's metal door slides close with a gay 'Ting!' behind them. Monta slumps against the cool silver surface, alternating between muttering to himself and shaking his head, like he had just seen something fantastically traumatising. He's also clutching onto his bag like it's his lifeline. Sena scratches the back of his head and stares at the flashing numbers of floor on the panelling.

"Monta…"

"Yeah?"

"… We left the door open."

**xxx**

Agon is heavy.

Like, really, _really_ heavy. And is currently sweaty and smelly and snoring like a sedated hippopotamus.

Hiruma punches the annoying face that's sticking to his chest. "Get off, dumbass."

A large hand covers his mouth, and the snoring resumes. The blond rolls his eyes in exasperation, before doing what any sane people would do in his current situation.

He licks Agon's hand, slowly and deliberately and with lots of saliva.

That does the trick.

"Are you tryin' to give me another erection, whore?" from the tone of Agon's voice, he's not quite averse to the idea. Quite the contrary actually. The Shinryuji player runs a hand through Hiruma's golden spikes of hair, and yanks forcefully at them so that he has a perfect view of slender neck, arched into submission. "Can't get enough of me, can you?"

"You wish," snaps the quarterback, smirking. He slaps the rough hand from further abusing to his hair (which cost a lot to maintain), and starts shifting away from his earlier position underneath Agon. Hiruma stands up and stretches, bare skin glistening with sweat. He merely yawns at the hungry look in Agon's eyes. "I'm going out. Don't bother with dinner."

Agon eyes his… uh, _boyfriend_ suspiciously. "Got a date with someone? Do I have to kill anyone in the near future?"

"No, you jealous fuck." Hiruma starts picking up discarded articles of clothing, before pivoting on his heels and heads towards the bathroom. "As sickeningly cute as you being all possessive and bastard-ly like that, I'm meeting Shin. He's got a cold fish for a dick."

"What're you gonna do to that guy?"

Hiruma grins inside the bathroom, turning on the shower. "Nothing much. Just a few… _friendly_ inquiries about some things."

"Huh. Well," Agon rises from the couch, and snatches up his jeans from underneath the coffee table. Hiruma's magazine crinkles unhappily underneath his feet. He finds his shirt hanging from a landscape portrait on the wall. Weird. "I'm off to the club. Gotta pick up some chicks."

"You better not smell like cheap perfume shit again," comes the threat from behind the bathroom's door, slightly muffled by the sound of water hitting tiles. "I'm really gonna put a hole in your head this time if you come back dead drunk too."

"I love you too, trash."

The door slams shut.

**xxx**

When Hiruma steps out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel and dripping water all over the rug, he notices a long, white box, with a red ribbon fastened to one of its ends, on the coffee table. The blond raises an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of the mysterious box, before he notices a small card, patternless and bare, except for a single sentence in bold black ink, sitting on top of the package.

_"Happy birthday, trash."_

His thin lips curl into a smile. "Fuckin' stupid dread."

**END**


End file.
